


A Beautiful Profanity

by Phantomholdsmyheart2743



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Erik Has Feelings, Erik is a Sweetheart, F/M, Falling In Love, Love, Mutual Pining, Sensuality, Sexy Times, Tags Are Hard, feelings are also hard, it's about the yearning, unspoken attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27964394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomholdsmyheart2743/pseuds/Phantomholdsmyheart2743
Summary: An accident breaks a mask, and the growing tension.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 11
Kudos: 58





	A Beautiful Profanity

Sometimes she is certain that there is something wrong with her. She heard voices from behind mirrors and was intrigued instead of afraid. An Opera Ghost lures her beneath the ground for lessons and her heart skips to feel his hand in hers as they walk through the darkness. Days and days, months and months of Erik. 

Now, her angel clutches at her, penitent on his knees and all she can focus on is the way his gloved hands curve against the backs of her legs. The way his fingertips twitch with his breaths and the shockwaves that seem to pass through her when his heavy exhalations hit her thighs. He is unmasked, and she feels nothing but curiosity. There it is: the stretched skin, the twisted nose, the hollow of his cheek. She wants to taste--

Wrong, all wrong. She sets her hands upon his shoulders in an attempt to steady herself and he is unmoored, grip tightening. A sound she’s never made outside the darkness of her room escapes her at his reaction. The way his gaze flickers to her lips before he remembers that it shouldn’t. She imagines his fingerprints leaving indentations in her skin, imagines lips following hands, tongue following lips. Wonders if he could play her as well as he plays a violin.

How often has his music accompanied his dreams, how often has she woken to notes of it on her breath. Erik.

“Erik,” she says, and he shudders. Even through his suit she can feel the sharp edges of his clavicles. Solid and alive, warm and breathing. The body to the voice that haunts her in the pre-dawn. Erik...and she is not afraid of his ruined face, the bloat and flare of angry skin. Perhaps she was once, but it seems like so long ago.

“Christine, Forgive me.” And he is on his knees and the perverse parts of her want to see him beg. The way her name curls from his lips fills her with a frisson of delight so sharp that she gasps. She wants to trace the seam that separates perfection and imperfection with her tongue. The mask lies broken on the floor, and she is glad of the mistake that bared him to her observation.

Depraved, she is depraved. She is not mad, she is not shocked. The air between them is music--oh God forgive her for wanting an angel even when he looks like this. He is looking at her, eyes so gold and sad that she finds herself reaching towards his face. He flinches.

Her heart stops and stutters, regains its beat only when he says, “No one has ever touched me…” The unspoken flashes of past violence turn gold to amber. But his pupils blow wide, lips parting as he nods in answer to her unspoken question: may I continue?

New territory, and the thrill of claiming it. Her fingertips brush his jawline and he moans. Obscene, he nuzzles into the flesh of her palm like a cat. She wants him to take her fingers into his mouth. Blood rushes through her to all the places it shouldn’t as his hands slide down her calves as he sits back. She imagines lying back on the chaise, opening to him. She in white and he in black. The covered mirror over the mantlepiece catching them moving together; a beautiful profanity.

“Why do you color so, sweet Christine. Are you afraid? I have other masks, you needn’t look upon me.” He is so much larger than she is, so much stronger. Gentler too. Gentle as a ghost can be. She loves the danger in him. The predatory way he moves. But now he is all soft angles, making himself vulnerable for her. Thick dark lashes, softly parted lips. Is it wrong to bite an angel? She has to look away before she tries.

“I don’t mind,” and the syllables fill the air on a singer’s breath. He trembles, presses his forehead to her closed knees and praises the God he often fails to believe in. Their abandoned teacups sit familially on the side table; sloshed tea makes rings on the wood. He doesn’t regret anything. Not the loss of his mask, not his lunge to catch her as she tripped. He does not even regret the way she bumped his mask off. She did not scream, not at all. Did not look away from him, as if he were an ordinary man.

“Will you...will you take off your gloves?” Her fingertip traces the seam across the back of his hand, and he swears he can feel it just below his collarbone.

This is the longest she has ever stayed after a lesson. She is a vision in blue and white. Dark curls half tied back, bosom rising and falling. Ribbons, she wears so many ribbons.  
What would it be like to feel the creaminess of her smooth skin. It hurts to look at her; it hurts even more to look away. He slowly peels off his gloves. He does not deserve this moment. She touched him.

His hands are pale as the rest of him. Long-fingered and dextrous. She catches one between her own hands. “I’m not afraid of you, my Erik.”

Electricity zings through her as she interlaces their fingers. It feels right. Hers, hers. He is hers. Claimed--the devil could take him now and he would die a happy man.

“I like your smile,” she says softly, and he is decimated. She is soft-eyed and looking upon Death’s grin, and compliments it!

It is a dangerous game he plays as he rises up on his knees again to use his free hand to tuck an errant curl behind her ear. He pauses before he makes contact, unsure.  
“Is this okay?”

She nods. “Of course.”

Now her free hand cups his marred cheek and he shudders at the warmth of it. She leans forward. The scent of gardenia fills him. “Erik,” a plea. A confession? A gift.

“Oh God,” he moans, and it is an unspoken agreement when she slides from the chaise to press against him. Her breasts against him, her warmth against him. Her breath against his throat. Their interlocked fingers between them. She lets go, presses both hands to his chest, strokes outward to his shoulders and he is lost, burying his wet face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the perfume of her. “Christine, I love you.” He whispers into her throat, but she hears.

And her arms are around his neck, and he holds her so, so tightly. Her lips on his jaw, her kiss on the corner of his mouth as she whispers, “My Erik--Min älskade. Kiss me.”  
He is hers. They belong.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, thank you all so much for your lovely reviews. More to come soon. Having a lot of feelings about these two lately--I hope you enjoy <3 Remember reviews feed the author!  
> Min älskade: my love (Thank you to the guest reviewer who helped fix my Swedish)


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